All Lives End
by epitomeofgoodbyes
Summary: Mycroft Holmes had never been good at closure. All he ever wanted to do was protect his younger brother. But all lives end.


_4:45_

Some would say that he held a minor position in the British government. He was one of these 'some'. Truth was, he _was _the British government. He was the middleman, connected to everything, entangled in every affair – but he never allowed the web to swallow him in. He was, in short, the man behind the country itself.

And it was _bloody hard work_.

The wages were brilliant (since he controlled his wages) of course, and the influence was certainly useful at times, but there was no end to the work. There was always a scandalous affair breezing through the news that had to be hushed up, a political assassin to be dealt with, and the _godforsaken Korean elections_. There was his little brother. The one that was dead.

He had done everything he could to protect the blind idiot. Mycroft Holmes had held him under 24 hour surveillance, tried to plant as many spies as he could – he had even bribed Sherlock's 'friends' to keep an eye out (only Detective Inspector Lestrade was smart enough to take the money though). They were both equipped with minds that had been welded into blades, razor sharp, observing and noting everything. It was enough to make a man go insane.

And Sherlock somewhat had. He didn't understand the stark _importance _of _mastering _his mind, of _controlling _his mind into obedience, or _separating _his mind and body. Sherlock had always given into his mind, drinking up the rush of speed and intelligence like a dishonest man drunk wine. That was why Mycroft Holmes would always be smarter than his brother.

He would never let his mind control him.

_Never again_.

Wearily the man, the British government, turned another page in the worn out planner, skimming through the pages until his eyes rest on the current date. Two days after his brother had died, had killed himself. As much as Mycroft tried and tried, he could not conceive why. His mind had worked and hammered at the question for hours at end, trying to _understand_, but he simply could not. Sherlock Holmes was no fake, and therefore there was no reason to die. Even brushing that blatant fact aside, he knew that his younger brother would have been _bored _with death.

There was no life in death, after all. And Sherlock lived for life as he lived for death.

He had even asked his PA why she thought Sherlock had killed himself. She had looked at him warily, not surprised that he had not shed a tear. Mycroft had thought perhaps a more human if still intelligent mind could see the answer where he could not. All she had said was, "_Maybe he didn't die. Maybe he was just too tired to go on. It's all maybes and perhaps, sir, and I'm sorry, but I'm not good with those._"

He wasn't either. He could deal with solid, cold facts but – but caring was not to his advantage. Resting his head on his forearm, his eyes lazily swept over his PA's impeccably neat handwriting. Maybe, perhaps, he could forget the fuzzy photo of his brother in the newspapers and just concentrate.

His eyes came to a stop at the listing written under 8:45 PM.

_8 : 4 5 P M_

_Visit Sherlock Holmes's grave. Say goodbye._

Mycroft rolled his head back, glancing up at the ceiling with a unsteady mixture of exasperation, irritation, and something he could not recognize. He took the planner in hand and stood up, crossing the laminated floor and stepping into the next room to the right.

"Evening, sir," Anthea, as he referred to her now out of habit, said automatically, eyes meeting his only briefly before she continued typing rapidly, fingers flying over the keyboard.

He watched her, considering her importance, her value, and her word all within the span of exactly one second. Mycroft placed the planner by her side, looking at her with clear irritation marked over his usually passive face. "PA, Anthea. You're my PA, not therapist."

"I fired your therapist," Anthea said noncommittally. "She wasn't doing much good."

"No, she wasn't," Mycroft agreed, inspecting every centimeter of the woman before him. She had built her life around him perfectly, dressed in neat skirts and blouses, smiling as coolly as him – she was nothing if not dedicated. That only brought him to wonder _what the hell was she thinking_? "But you aren't either. The 8:45 PM appointment?"

For the first time in an incredibly long time, her guards fell open. She looked tired, weary. She looked like, he realized, she looked like him. "Sir, your response to the threat in our northern borders was completely inadequate. You missed the appointment with Russia because you _slept in_. You need to get this out of your system. Like now would be good. You need _closure_."

"Not my therapist, Anthea," Mycroft said again, but he could not shake the feeling that she was _absolutely right_.

"Thank God I'm not," she said, offering him a glimpse of a smile, "Otherwise I would have been fired a long time ago."

He hesitated for just a moment before smiling back and slipping away back to his desk, leaving the woman to her work.

Time went by slowly and quickly in the same time, defying logic.

_5:30_

For some reason, he could not recollect what one was supposed to do when visiting a dead relative. It was by no means the first time he had suffered through such an ordeal, but he could not remember. He had never indulged into the habit of deleting things from his memory (which was likely to be a few numbers above the percentage of the usual human memory), but for the life of him, he simply could not remember.

He texted Anthea.

_What do you do at graves? When mourning?_

_-Mycroft Holmes_

She responded 18.3 seconds later, approximately.

_Have you considered dancing, sir?_

_-Anthea_

Before he could reply again, she followed up with another text.

_You leave flowers and find closure because God know you need it,_

_Great Britain knows as well, sir._

_-Anthea_

He rolled his eyes.

_Not helpful, Anthea. _

_-Mycroft_

She responded with only two words and a punctuation mark.

_Google, sir_.

Ah.

_6:15_

After some consideration and the forwarding of some confidential emails, Mycroft decided to indulge his PA and look this up on a web browser (not _actually _Google of course – Google was for amateurs). He quickly typed in, "how to mourn at a graveyard," and hit the enter key.

Mycroft scrolled through the results in lightning pace, absorbing each piece of information. His keyboard keys had long ago been replaced so they don't click, but if it was audible, the sounds would have slurred into one another until there was no distinction.

There was helpful information, yes. (Far more helpful than Anthea.)

But he had a sinking feeling that this would not help him.

_7:00_

Perhaps he could convince Anthea to move up the times.

He was a patient man, but he could stand no more of this.

_7:30_

Although they had debated for a solid fifteen minutes, Anthea was quite certain that this was important to the whole _closure _concept. Mycroft was familiar to closure, yes, but he understood that Anthea knew tragedy as well as him.

He reluctantly relented, but they both knew if he truly wanted to change the times, he would have changed them.

_8:40_

They were in the black car, silently speeding along London's traffic. Anthea continued her work on the 'Blackberry' – God, there were far too many apostrophes about that woman. He quietly stared out at the dark window, contemplating everything but what was relevant.

The seats – usually perfect – were rumpled. This could have only happened due to a heavy weight. Upon closer inspection, there was a slight tear in the leather, jagged enough to imply a nail. That implied other materials to create something. The only other man who used the car was Stephen who had a – _yes, yes, a musical interest and a dangerous family_. Saving a prized piano from danger.

While his PA could not be expected to see the same, she was observant enough to notice the car was not in perfect condition. She would not have chosen this car if she had looked through first, which she usually did, but she was in a hurry and only did the initial security checks. Thinking back to her words in the planner, it also led to the possibility that she had only recently planned this. All other slots of time near those words were empty, so she much have chosen it out of convenience.

But what would lead her to suddenly display an interest in this? She was often more than a PA despite her title, true enough. She played the parts of a confidante, a technician, a doctor – even a _bloody therapist_, but this was not as carefully planned out as it should have been.

He turned to look at her, but he found that the car had rolled to a stop.

Just on time.

_8:45_

He stood alone in front of the gravestone, leaning heavily on a weathered umbrella. The rain drizzled on, unforgiving of all beneath. Nature was heartless, strong. It selected only what was strong enough and terminated what was not. It evolved with defense and offence tactics. He had always aimed for this.

Sentiment, after all, was a chemical defect found on the losing side.

Sentiment.

_Sentiment._

He was giving into his mind, letting himself be preyed on by emotions. This death had been a heavy wound on his mind, and it was not healing fast enough. The blade that was his mind was dull by this death. Why else had he not been able to see his PA's motives?

Mycroft did not understand how normal people did it. How did John Watson travel through every day, knowing his best friend was dead? How did Molly Hooper fall out of love with a dead man? How did Mrs. Hudson bear the loss of what must have been like a son? How did Detec –

But suddenly he knew.

They all soldiered on, limped on.

Mycroft opened his umbrella, leaning it on the side of the flawless stone. It would shelter the stone from the rain. He would protect his brother one last time.

And the he would solider on.

_All hearts are broken._

_All lives end._


End file.
